


i see angels

by indiachick



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Supernatural AU - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 14:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2697062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiachick/pseuds/indiachick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for siennavie, fill for a meme: Sam and Dean meet at a support group</p>
            </blockquote>





	i see angels

The Cuban woman has passed her GCSEs today; they clap for her, and then Amara gets up behind the mike and starts talking about genetics and something called Millward Brown. Figures and stats fly, words like pyramid and equity, and Dean zones out till he thinks his head is starting to come off again, that weird dizziness that precedes his visions, and he sings to keep himself from surfing the delta waves. The Styx. Damn, that band had some riffs. Missouri has to talk Amara down today as well, intervening softly before Amara ends up giving someone a brain aneurysm from her market research. Missouri looks at Dean, sharp eyes narrowing. He looks back, unimpressed. Puts his legs up on the empty folding chair in front of him, with a loud clang. He’s not talking. Not to this crowd.

 

“Sam, honey?”

 

This kid is new. Dean watches with interest, wondering what he is. Wannabe actor, Broadway singer, band-groupie? Student under a mountain of crippling debt? Random small-town mote clogging the byways of Manhattan? He’s wearing thin clothes and his longish hair is not brushed, which means he must be from a local street, and those are the kinds of people Mott Street and its whereabouts get. The motes. The lost Asians. The nice meth-heads. Or people like Dean, washed out here because every place is just the same, and he couldn’t give a damn enough to drive out to some nicer, less toothy city.

 

Sam-Honey has nice eyes, Dean observes, in that split second when he swipes that curtain of hair away from his face. Nice ass, too. He says  hi in a quiet, smoker’s voice that carries somehow bone-jarringly across the architecturally challenged hall. Usually everyone says  hi  back, mega-cheerful, like someone’s pressed an applause button on one of those Hollywood thingmajigs. Today, he’s startled them all somehow.  Hi,  Sam tries again. The crackly PA system goes haywire on him, emitting a loud high-pitched squeal that makes him jump a feet into the air and back away nervously. 

Dean laughs, then stuffs his fist in his mouth. Missouri throws him a look that could burn through diamond. She says, “Take all the time you need, Sam.”

 

“Yeah, do,” mumbles Dean, mockingly. “Not like any of us have lives.”

 

The guy sitting next to him sends him a watery, cantankerous glare. Dean shuts up and focuses on a hole in his jeans. And then Sam grimaces and grabs hold of the mike, resolutely giving his hair another shove. It falls right back in his eyes.

 

“I was - fourteen—” he mutters, and then, louder, “—um, fourteen when I started seeing them. The angels.”

Dean wonders how long ago  fourteen was. This kid still looks like jailbait. He sits up straighter, intrigued by the mention of  angels . Sam looks anxiously at Missouri once, but it’s like someone pressed a switch in him and now he can’t stop. Words come pouring out of his mouth. The edges of his lips stay up in a half-smile, as if someone’s playing him like a ventriloquist dummy, putting the words in him while pulling up his puppet cheeks. Dean just watches. How Sam’s eyes narrow when he speaks, like fox or something exotic. How he’s skinny and dressed in too many layers and trembling, but there’s a thrill of danger in his pose.

 

He doesn’t even seem to know it himself.

 

When Sam’s done, Missouri offers him a bottle of water. The sleeve of his jacket falls back when he takes it from her, and Dean can see a line of little carvings in his skin, neatly laid out like street grid maps. Marching up his arm, little blood-ants of glyphs or runes or nameless magic language. Painstakingly complex. Must have taken Sam a hell lot of time. Lot of time, and lot of blood.

 

 

Sam drops into the empty seat next to Dean. He’s big and brittle and the tips of his fingers are red with cold. He warms them on his cheeks, pushes them once through his hair that pops back in disarray like spring action. Dean thinks of Julie in the roachey apartment above him— tranny Julie Stevens who bought him some cheap rice beer for favors granted— and tries to remember if the beer is still sitting in her little fridge, murky as formalin.

 

“Hey, after this bullshit is done, you wanna come grab a drink? Talk , maybe?” he grins, wide and immediate, hopefully in a winning manner. Sam gets that half-way smile again, and he just blinks, so Dean pulls the sleeve of his own jacket down, shows Sam the line of rough, knife-cut seals. Sam looks at him— halfway confused, halfway terrified of what Dean will say next.

 

You see angels,  Dean thinks. He says, “I see demons.”


End file.
